


On Your Couch

by trashfortimmy



Series: Wandering Back To You [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: A Bit Romantic, Biting, Couch Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Foot Massage, Foreplay, Light Angst, M/M, Teasing, elio can't help but get existential af, over the pants foot jobs, the boys getting handsy, they are cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashfortimmy/pseuds/trashfortimmy
Summary: The boys have been meeting up in the nighttime and exploring each others bodies. Now they get to explore something new together after Elio comes back from his wanderings to find Oliver, asleep on the couch.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: Wandering Back To You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636201
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. It's been four hours now

**Author's Note:**

> Here is Part 3 as promised! I've split it into 2 chapters, the second one will be posted in a few weeks (or whenever I finish writing it lol).
> 
> This work gave me a hell of a time with the posting date and formatting issues 😫 But here it is!
> 
> This chapter is inspired by Sufjan Steven's "Futile Devices", particularly:
> 
> _And when I sleep on your couch I feel very safe_

Elio’s entire existence had become narrowed down to one simple task: waiting for night to fall. 

All of a sudden his only assignment was to get through daylight. Through breakfast, the morning hours usually spent transcribing music at his favorite round table outside, then lunch (which became harder to bear if they had guests), the late afternoon with its impossible heat and the imperative to nap, more drudgery at dinner, the cool summer evening with its cicada song and stretching rays of sunlight, then finally twilight fading into star-bright darkness. It all seemed so simple, just one little task, but Elio was having a hard time coming up with ways to complete it nonetheless.

Not like he wasn’t used to it. Even before their current summer resident had begun to take up more and more of his time in darkness, Elio had learned how to be alone, spending his hours transcribing music, cycling, swimming, napping, reading. Passing time at the villa during the seemingly endless summers he spent there was always something he had had to do. But it had never been a task he’d approached with so much intention.

Now he _needed_ the time to pass, _needed_ the night to come. He’d prefer if upon the day reaching full darkness that time would kindly then stop, possibly freeze or simply stretch on and on without the interruption of sunrise. It was the days that seemed endless, the sun cruelly shining down and reminding him that Oliver wouldn’t be his until it disappeared again.

On this particular day, Elio feels bored of all of his usual activities that normally would amuse him while time passed by slowly, so slowly that it seems like he’s watching molasses move. He also feels restless, with too much energy bouncing around in his body and nowhere to go. 

He needs to exorcise this uneasy feeling, to settle the jumpiness of his nerves. Perhaps a walk would do the trick, literally moving his body through space might calm his restless mind. While he’s out, he doesn’t want to be reminded of the time, doesn’t want to be mocked by the slow-blinking seconds and carefully creeping minutes that make up hours, so he takes off his watch and leaves it on a table by the door.

Free from the constraints of measured time, he heads out. Elio takes his bike, but decides to walk it, hoping to take up more time this way.

He ventures away from the villa wherever his legs will take him. The roads and dirt paths around his summer home are incredibly familiar, and could probably be navigated with his eyes closed (although he’s never tried). Though those roads stay the same, he feels like new-Elio, some newfangled version of his old self that had always been within him but has only just now blossomed to the surface. The meeting between old and new feels strange, at once magical and precarious, like balancing on a tightrope with nothing to catch him underneath. He feels suspended, mesmerized by old sights made anew, at once thrilled and terrified that at any moment he could fall into nothingness below.

Everything he passes looks suddenly different, as if this whole time he’d been seeing some slightly false, dulled-down version. Now it’s all bright, luminous, shining.

Maybe all this time he wasn’t really _seeing_ things; now it’s like a whole new organ has taken over which sees things for what they really are. It was hiding until now, somewhere deep inside his mind, and has suddenly been unshrouded in order to see more clearly.

He tries to pinpoint the moment when the change took place, but can’t come up with anything specific. Instead he imagines his new, all-seeing organ, his third eye, this thing that only sees magic and beauty, tries to determine its shape and color. He doesn’t know where it came from, or what was the key that unlocked this new realm of perception.

Everything inside and outside him feels brand new -- the ground, the sky, the trees, his sight, his soul, his heart.

He is made up of changed parts but stays the same. At once a constant and in flux. He feels situated in the exact moment of collision between past and present, the impact raining down light and stardust upon his head. The debris is now part of his essence, absorbing into the very core of him and remaking him from the inside out.

It feels like Elio is wearing his soul on the outside. Everything feels electric.

He stops for a moment and watches as the grasses dance and the light moves through the leaves of the trees.

He passes by the berm, his berm, Monet’s berm, an old place with new memories. His eyes flit down the path towards the water, but he doesn’t move his bike down that way.

He passes gardens overflowing with blooms, vegetable plots with neat little rows of plants, orchards filled with trees heavy with fruit, _pesce_ , _albicoca_ , _melograno_.

Elio continues his aimless journey, the only accompanying sounds the rapid click of his bicycle as it’s pushed along and the overlapping trills of birdsong.

The lushness of summer is all around him, on full display as green and golden and yellow sparkle and shimmer in the glowing afternoon light.

He decides to rest in a spot just off the dirt path he’d been walking, leaning his bike against a tree before plopping down into the grass, still green but shifting to yellow as it begins to dry in the light of the ever-constant summer sun. He lies back and closes his eyes against the sun, feeling the warmth of its rays seep into his pores and spread throughout his entire body. 

Even with his eyes shut, he can still sense the light, his eyelids seeming to glow from the inside. Seeing without actually seeing. He has the distinct feeling of having tapped into some sort of new way of observing the world, which now seems limitless, immeasurable, without end. Nothing short of divine.

When he opens his eyes again, the sun has sunk considerably lower and he decides it’s time to end his journey, resigning himself to wait out the rest of the daylight at home.

Hoisting himself up, he grabs his bicycle once again and heads back to the villa.

On the way, he passes by a field in which daffodils grow during the springtime. _How things have changed since then_ , he thinks. _How I too have changed_.

He rides the short way back to the villa, swinging both legs to the same side of the bike and letting it ride, standing on one pedal, once he gets close enough. 

When he’s home again, he picks up the watch he left by the door and straps it to his wrist, covering the tan line present in its absence. He glances at its face and notices that somehow he’s made four hours pass.

He feels accomplished, and yet he still has many more hours to go.

With a plan to go upstairs, relax on his bed in the little guest room, maybe read, maybe take a shower, he hasn’t decided yet, he heads inside.

On his way to the staircase, he finds Oliver. 

Oliver, asleep.

Oliver, asleep, on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when Elio said "Whoever said the soul and the body met in the pineal gland was a fool. It's the asshole, stupid"? Turns out "whoever" is actually Descartes, who believed the pineal gland was the seat of the soul. The gland itself is located deep in the back of the brain, and is linked to a light-sensing organ in some animals while being a source of hormone secretions (such as melatonin) in humans. It's also been linked with the concept of the "Third Eye", because of its deep placement in the brain and its association with light.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this first chapter! It's been a year since I started writing in this fandom and it's been such a wonderful experience and helped me discover my love of writing once again. It's been a little more than 2 years since I first watched CMBYN and I still think about it every day.
> 
> I'm needy, leave me a comment :)


	2. I feel very safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't even know how to feel these days, it's very strange and sad. It's hard to feel hopeful, and I think that life will feel odd for a while going forward. I'm supposed to go back to work in a week and I have no idea what's going to happen.
> 
> But...we've gotta move forwards. I've been trying to go outside when I can, and write when I can. I'm thrilled with the response to "Drive Stick" and will hopefully be writing more of that when inspiration strikes. But for the time being, I'm revisiting our boys as we left them, where Elio discovered Oliver asleep on "his spot" on the couch. There's nothing I'd like more now than to escape to their little world and join them in their happy bubble. 
> 
> Because I want them happy always, I've given them some _good times_ on this couch of theirs. Once again, please suspend your disbelief and/or pretend that the Perlman elders are out of the villa. I leave their whereabouts ambiguous but lbr, they know what's going on anyways.
> 
> This chapter includes a few lines from William Wordsworth's Poem "I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud," and comes from this lovely little section:
> 
>   
> _For oft, when on my couch I lie  
>  In vacant or in pensive mood,  
> They flash upon that inward eye  
> Which is the bliss of solitude;  
> And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
> And dances with the daffodils._
> 
>   
> How perfect is that?
> 
> Hope you enjoy this second part :)

Oliver. Asleep. On the couch.

Elio once again senses himself on the precipice, standing on the edge between past and present, then and now, not-Oliver and Oliver. He feels the different timelines exploding inside his mind, crashing into each other with such force that they leave fiery trails of dust in their wake. He stands, frozen, looking down at Oliver’s sleeping form, not wanting to move, not wanting to blink in case it isn't real.

But there Oliver is.

Oliver, asleep on the couch where Elio himself so often naps. The very couch where he had slept, half-awake and half-dreaming, listening to the voices of Oliver and his father speak and debate in the study. That couch had become a comfort to him, even through his frustration when Oliver was otherwise occupied, when he had to wait for the night to come before he and Oliver could retreat from the outside world and be alone again, just the two of them. Sleeping there was his way of keeping Oliver near, of keeping tabs on him, of keeping him close even if they couldn’t touch.

He’d often thought of their time spent together while on that couch, or dreamed of times to come. He’d slept to pass the time but yearned for Oliver to walk by, to brush over his cheek with his fingers, to jostle him awake and ask him to go into town, back to his spot, upstairs to his-their room, anywhere at all, the only thing Oliver needed to do was ask. 

He feels so happy to see Oliver there, peaceful in sleep, in another one of his spots. Elio is happy when Oliver is happy, content when he is content. There is nothing more that Elio wants to see than Oliver happy and carefree.

He thinks of a couplet from Wordsworth:

_And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
And dances with the daffodils_

He thinks of the daffodils in the field in springtime, back to a season when he hadn’t even known Oliver existed.

But Oliver very much exists now, right in front of him; all he has to do is reach out and touch. 

Elio gazes at his face, and Oliver looks happy now. Or at least, peaceful. He looks younger somehow, his face smooth and free from worry.

He admires him for a while before gently sliding onto the couch next to Oliver’s head, petting through his golden locks with slim fingers. 

Oliver stirs slightly, chin tilting up as if stretching his neck, his head easily finding contact with Elio’s thigh. He seems to hesitate, a moment of stillness, before lifting his chin further so that his nose presses into Elio's thigh. Oliver stays there for several long moments, breathing against Elio’s skin. The longer the contact is held, the longer he breathes in Elio’s scent, the more he seems to relax.

Elio smiles at the state he’s in, all too familiar with the boundary between dreaming and wakefulness, continuing to gently card his fingers through Oliver’s hair. It’s not often that Oliver is this docile, doesn’t let his mask of control slip very often, but Elio is amazed and honestly, often bowled over, by the fact that Oliver lets it go in front of him, more and more these days. Elio feels grateful to be witness to this unguarded Oliver, this soft giant of a man.

Oliver continues to rest, the side of his head against Elio’s thigh, touching bare skin just below the hem of his shorts. The soft hairs at Oliver’s temple tickle at Elio’s skin, barely moving against his leg with each soft breath that Oliver takes. His eyes are still closed as he breathes deeply and lounges on Elio, both of them enjoying the quiet moment and their points of contact. Elio luxuriates in the feel of Oliver resting against him, feels a contented hum run through him as he syncs up his inhale and exhale with the man in his lap, imagines they are breathing as one.

There is no movement from Oliver for a few minutes, eyes still closed, nothing but breaths between them. Elio’s head is leaned back against the couch cushion, eyes open but not focusing on anything, spacing out on a point somewhere on the ceiling as he listens to both their breathing. 

Suddenly Oliver is snuffling against his leg, seeming to put effort into waking himself up as he pushes his torso off the couch, then slides his hands towards Elio’s leg blindly, eyes remaining shut. He continues to move, seemingly content to do it all by feel alone, raising up into a semi-sitting position as he shifts Elio’s body by pulling at his leg until it’s situated on top of the couch. His hands are steady, moving down Elio’s thigh until he reaches his calf, pulling it along with him as he flops back against the back of the couch where he sits upright. Elio ends up sitting against the couch on his side, body tilted towards Oliver, leg over in his lap.

Oliver's eyes are still closed, giving Elio the perfect opportunity to gaze at him undeterred, eyes sweeping greedily over his fanned out eyelashes and messy hair. His blonde hair, his golden skin - it’s like he’s shining. He admires the pale swathe of his exposed throat, the only expanse of flesh that’s currently on display lacking that sun-kissed glow. Elio stares openly at the easiness of his pose, the trust in keeping his eyes shut, the soft planes of his face still flushed with sleep. He reaches out and runs a finger behind Oliver’s ear, tenderly caressing up and down, tracing the contours of the lobe and shell.

Elio basks in the quiet intimacy between them, his hand on Oliver’s head, his leg softly held in Oliver’s lap by his large, capable hands.

Oliver opens his eyes, looking down at his own lap, his hands, and Elio’s leg resting there.

He bends Elio’s leg and runs his fingers over the arches of his feet, gently, ever so gently, a whisper-brush of touch that makes Elio want to purr. He absolutely loves the feeling of Oliver’s hands on him, the way his touch communicates strength and tenderness all at once. He feels held by his hands, feels safe in his grasp.

After a while Oliver’s soft touches are on the verge of being ticklish, just on the edge of making Elio squirm. Oliver must be able to sense it because he begins to press more firmly into his foot; the turn from soft to hard is intoxicating and Elio has to hold in his gasp. His gaze is resting softly on Oliver’s face, and he can see a barely-there smirk on his lips as he continues to press and prod at Elio’s bony, calloused foot.

He loves seeing Oliver happy, and that makes him happy, too.

Elio watches Oliver as he wraps his hands around Elio’s foot, encompassing the whole thing in his grasp. Elio loves being wrapped up in Oliver like this, loves being surrounded by him, feeling his warm touch, getting his whole attention. 

His hands feel heavenly, and Elio relaxes into the feeling of Oliver’s fingers digging into his arch, sweeping over the bridge, caressing his achilles. It’s when Oliver’s attention moves down to the ball of his foot that the mood turns from affectionate to sensual, a change that has Elio feeling a rush of goosebumps on his body, the hairs on his arms and legs standing up in their wake.

Oliver grasps Elio’s big toe and pulls, his touch more firm now, and Elio sucks in a little breath through his nose. Oliver’s got that look on his face, the one he gets when he’s really onto something, when he gets a reaction out of Elio that pleases him. When he’s being a tease, when he knows that if he continues Elio will be done in completely but holds back just for the fun of it. 

His face remains down, looking at his hands working over Elio’s foot, and Elio sees he’s trying to school his expression into one of neutrality, but he knows Oliver well enough by now to know when he’s being smug, when he’s extremely pleased with himself at having discovered something that has the possibility to take Elio apart. 

He continues his torture, pulling at each and every one of Elio’s toes in sucession, moving from largest to smallest, and by the time he’s gotten to his pinky toe Elio’s breath is coming out in labored pulls.

Oliver glances over at Elio, who tries his best to glare at Oliver for torturing him so sweetly, but Oliver just flashes him his trademark smirk because he’s onto him, and goes back to his task.

It’s like he knows Elio is sinking, lost in the feeling of Oliver’s hands on him, because the next thing Elio feels is Oliver’s thumb digging sharply into his instep. The intense pressure brings him out of his lust-filled reverie and makes him hiss in pain. Oliver doesn’t seem sympathetic to his suffering, as he grasps the ball of Elio’s foot and twists, as if to crack it. In response, Elio’s foot jerks in his grasp and his hand flies to Oliver’s arm, grabbing it and yanking his hand away from his foot. He moves swiftly, bringing Oliver’s hand towards his face, guiding a finger into his mouth, and biting down in retaliation.

Oliver turns his head sharply to look at Elio, the pain of Elio’s bite evident in his eyes; but when he sees Elio’s own eyes sparkling back at him, he simply smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges, fangs bared playfully.

Their eyes remain locked and the moment stretches on, both challenging each other to continue their playfighting.

Elio breaks first, moving Oliver’s hand in his grasp so the pads of his fingers brush over Elio’s lips, still staring straight into his eyes. Oliver’s eyes lose their playfulness and his smile morphs into a silent, open-mouthed gasp, lips parted as his jaw hangs slack. Those eyes darken as Elio’s tongue comes out to lick over his fingers, brushing over each one wetly in succession. When he gets to his pinky finger, he takes the tip of it between his lips and sucks ever so gently. He can tell he’s foiled all of Oliver’s plans to torture him by torturing him right back, and he watches as Oliver’s lids droop in pleasure, his golden eyelashes fluttering down towards his pinkening cheeks.

In that moment Elio has him, and uses Oliver’s moment of weakness and distraction to wiggle his foot in his lap, moving it closer to the growing bulge in his pants. When he reaches his destination, arch of his foot fitted nicely over Oliver’s clothed crotch, Oliver sucks in a breath and grabs Elio’s foot with his free hand. This seems to serve the purpose of stopping Elio’s foot from doing any more damage while at the same time pressing it ever so slightly into Oliver’s crotch; he watches the war play out on Oliver’s face, not knowing whether to pull Elio’s foot away or push it down further into his lap.

Elio makes the decision for him, taking Oliver’s hand that’s still in his grasp and sucking his middle finger into his mouth entirely, at the same time as he wiggles his foot and finds more firmly the solid line of Oliver’s hardening cock. For all of his teasing, Elio feels what they’re doing closer to worship, Oliver’s body his temple, their bodies coming together his sacrament, all those divine parts of him that Elio adores.

 _In the crooks of your body I find my religion_ , Elio thinks, moving his foot back and forth over Oliver’s cock still trapped in his pants. He wiggles it side-to-side before moving the sole of his foot back and forth against Oliver’s hardness, digging his heel in and caressing with his toes at each end.

Oliver’s got his head tipped back and his eyes closed, hands resting lightly at his sides. He has him now; Elio smiles to himself, teeth showing. He’s thrilled at his own influence over Oliver, his own ability to take control of him, body and mind, and get him to surrender. He loves Oliver for his strength and blustering confidence, but also for his thoughtfulness and secretly submissive nature. Elio can bend him to his will, and for that, Elio is grateful and, well, a bit smug.

They aren’t usually intimate with each other during the daylight hours, so this feels like something special, like time is somehow suspended. Elio thinks about making love in the daytime; it’s still all quite new for them, and being out in daylight is thrilling because of its newness and because it’s more dangerous. They aren’t hidden away from prying eyes, but rather exposed, risking being seen.

Elio thinks of being seen with Oliver, really seen, and digs his heel in extra hard at the thought. A groan escapes from Oliver’s lips and his hand flies to Elio’s foot, moves it for him so his arch is over Oliver’s zipper, his cock hidden underneath, then back so his heel is touching again, keeps pulling and pushing.

On one of the pulls Elio takes charge again, using Oliver’s pull as momentum to climb into his lap, swinging his leg so his knee lands on the other side of Oliver’s lap and his bum lands squarely on top of it.

Oliver’s still got his eyes closed but he knows exactly what’s happened: he’s got a lap full of Elio. His hands move to Elio’s thighs and wrap around them, and Elio knows he’s nearly entirely encompassed by those large hands, those long fingers. He looks down at Oliver’s face from his new vantage point and runs his fingers over his features - sweeping across his soft eyelashes, skimming across his brow, moving down to brush across his shaven mustache line and soft lips.

He follows the traces of his fingers with his face, skimming over the air above the same parts he’s just touched, but without making contact. Oliver’s mouth is open and he can feel his hot breath moving in and out in the small space between them. He takes his time with his almost-there touch, drawing it out, before moving across Oliver’s jaw and down to his neck.

There he finally touches down, feeling that silky, smooth skin the sun has barely kissed. He noses along, finding that he loves equally the spots that are rough with just-shaved hairs and the spots that are smooth where no hair grows. He cherishes them both, the hard and soft of Oliver, the rough and the smooth.

Elio gets a bit carried away, as he is wont to do when it comes to Oliver’s body, and bites down, taking into his teeth the soft skin just above his jugular. Inside the grip of his bite, he licks Oliver’s skin with his tongue, wetting this skin between his teeth. At first Oliver bucks at the rough touch, hands tightening on Elio’s thighs, but eventually he gives in to it, surrenders. Elio loves how pliant Oliver is under him, and wants to stay like this forever.

Now, more than ever, he wishes for night to come swiftly and without the multicolored fanfare of sunset, so he and Oliver can retreat to his room again. Oliver’s room. His room. Their room.

He kisses over Oliver’s neck, soothing the spot he’s just bitten and moving down towards his collarbone, then back up again. Oliver’s hands start stroking his thighs, moving all the way up to his hips and back down again. He seems utterly lost, and Elio revels in the feeling that he made Oliver that way.

Before they can get too carried away, Oliver snaps himself out of it and Elio feels his hands come up to his chest, pushing him away, unlatching him from Oliver’s neck, where he was mid-kiss.

“No, no, no,” Oliver says, gentle words but firm hands.

“Wha? Why?” Elio asks, petulant.

“Not here,” he says, and to Elio’s ears it sounds like _Later_ , like the promise of something more to come.

Then Elio’s being pushed off Oliver’s body as he stands up, smoothing over his shirt, leaving Elio pouting on the couch. He notices Oliver adjusting himself in his pants, and is slightly smug about it, but keeps the pout on his face just for show.

He worries for a minute that that’s the end of it, that’s all Oliver will let him have, but then Oliver is turning back around to him and smiling down at him, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes.

He sticks his hand out, offering it to Elio, the invitation clear in his gaze.

Elio looks at Oliver and loves his openness, his happy expression, his wild hair.

Elio takes Oliver’s hand and lets himself be pulled up, before they make a mess of the couch, before they make a mess of themselves.

He lets himself be pulled along in Oliver’s grasp, as they move towards the staircase and up towards their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's leave them there, shall we? And there you have the conclusion of this little series! Hope you enjoyed it, and if you're just discovering it now, I implore you to go back and read the rest of it too. Hope it served to distract you and/or lift your spirits, even if temporarily.
> 
> "In the crooks of your body I find my religion" is a quote by Sappho. Of course our dear Elio would know it, and think it in relation to his Oliver.
> 
> Please take care of yourself.


End file.
